


The Lines on Which We Stand

by MrsCaulfield



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But Sherlock needs John too, Fluff, John needs Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Reunion Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 08:26:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sat down there for hours, the dreadful silence barricading his ears. He had long since accepted the fact that he'd gone mad, and he was okay with it. What does it matter, if this little insanity made him happy for a few minutes and did no harm to anyone? Post-Reichenbach. Johnlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lines on Which We Stand

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to Suzanne (or tumblr user missawkwardconversation), who just finished watching all episodes of Sherlock and now ships Johnlock like the Titanic. Welcome to the fandom, sweetie!
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing Sherlock fan fiction. I hope you'll like it! Some feedback would be lovely.

On the day that John Watson decided to kill himself, he was having tea and biscuits with Mrs. Hudson. She had been telling a heartfelt story about her days as a young dressmaker, right at the peak of her youth and not giving any second thoughts on what she might be in the future. Her eyes glistened with reminiscence as John poured her another cup, laughing along.

"Oh, but I also had quite a lot of suitors—and mind you, dear, I was quite the lovely maiden in my time…"

John leaned back in his seat, staring intently at the overcast sky outside the window of Mrs. Hudson's flat. He didn't talk much, but that's alright. She knew—they all knew—that he'd grown weary of talking ever since Sherlock's theatrical disappearance. Usually, he prided himself in being able to keep his composure intact through the most desperate times. He was a soldier who invaded Afghanistan. He'd seen enough blood and violence to last him a lifetime. He'd been shot and been on the brink of death more times than he could count. But he made it through, and he was proud of that.

But when your best friend unexpectedly commits suicide in front of your very eyes, that is a different story. When that happened to John, he didn't even have to question it. Didn't even try to deny it. He just knew. John Watson knew that he would never be able to become whole again.

It had been two years, ten months, and seventeen days since the fall. There had been days of complete depression. Some days he felt empty, like a hollow mass of skins and cells and tissues that coordinated with one another to keep him alive against his will. There were days when he could laugh and hang out with what few friends he had. There were also days when he would lie down on his bed and relive the scene over and over again in his mind, not eating and sleeping for days on end. He still remembered it all as if not a day had gone by. The colour of the sky. The cool wind that bit at his skin. The sharp sound of the body of the love of his life as it hit the pavement.

He had been good at keeping up his charade. Everyone truly believed that he had moved on. He was still able to smile and tell stories, and he even had his job as a general practitioner at the hospital. He had gloomy days, for sure, but they all just thought it was a simple case of the sniffles. He had everyone fooled, but it was only a matter of time before it became exhausting. He found it unbearable to keep smiling when there was nothing that made him happy. To eat and walk and breathe as if he was still living, when in fact he was not. Because as far as he was concerned, when Sherlock jumped off that roof on that fateful day, he'd taken John's life as well as his own.

And then he saw him, out of the corner of his eye. John fixed his gaze past Mrs. Hudson's ear and onto her fireplace where, leaning on the mantelpiece, Sherlock Holmes stood. He had on his coat and signature blue scarf, his mop of dark hair protruding at every angle. He was pale, paler than John had ever seen him. John stared into his eyes and a lingering smile tugged upon the corners of his lips.

Sherlock seemed to be saying something to him, but he could not understand what it was. He raised an eyebrow to urge him to repeat, but Sherlock only shook his head, brought a finger to his lips and said, "Shhh. Listen."

"John. John, are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson appeared, blocking his view of the mantelpiece. Although he knew that if he were to look again, Sherlock would already be gone.

"I-I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson," he answered. "I haven't gotten a lot of sleep last night, so I'm feeling a bit woozy today. Nothing an afternoon nap won't fix." He gave her a reassuring smile.

"If you say so, then I guess it would be better if you go back to your flat. Thank you for having tea with me. I'll see you in the morning!"

Once he was back inside the walls of 221B, he let his shoulders sag and his face wear down. It was only in here that he could truly relish the thoughts of his deceased best friend. He was forced to make some changes, but he kept the essentials the same. Of course, he'd gotten rid of the preserved body parts in the fridge and the smorgasbord of laboratory equipment was all boxed up in Sherlock's room, but he never touched anything else. Sherlock's room was in the exact same state he left it in, save for the bed sheets that John took to sleeping in during some particularly gloomy days. His violin was unpacked and unpolished. The skull was still a looming presence on the mantelpiece.

As much as John liked Mrs. Hudson, he was glad to be alone. There were too many thoughts in his mind and he knew that there was only one thing that could fix that. It was what he looked forward to the most at the end of a long day. It was also his secret, one so precious that he must keep, lest he risk being sent back to his therapist. He shuddered. No. He didn't need that. She told him he had to forget. To move on. He didn't want that. The thought of him was the only thing that kept him alive these days and she was not about to take that away from him.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to Sherlock's room and stepped inside. There he was, sitting on the edge of his bed, leaning on his elbows and looking up at John with his ever-changing sea green eyes. "You've had a rough day," he said, and the sound of his voice kept John's feet planted firmly on the ground.

"I'm not even going to ask how you deduced that," he replied jokingly. He walked toward the bed and mimicked Sherlock's position. John looked at him, his heart breaking quite a bit at the blurriness of his profile when up close. He had eyes, a nose, a mouth, but John longed to see the wrinkles on the corners of his eyes whenever he smiled, the little dip of a philtrum above his lips and the lines on his forehead. Instead, all he could see was the plain expanse of white skin, reminding him once again the terrible predicament he had gotten himself in.

"Life was a lot easier when you were here," John told him. Sherlock frowned slightly, and he continued. "Yes, I know you were an absolutely unbearable flatmate," he giggled, "But you were mad. Mad and absolutely brilliant. And I can't keep on living without you. Because even though you're not here anymore, you're still there! And I just can't get rid of you!"

Sherlock sighed, looking guilty. "I am really sorry that I left you, John. I miss you so terribly."

John didn't even realise he was crying until he felt a damp spot on the sheets beneath his palm. "I know. We'll be together soon. I promise."

He sat down there for hours, the dreadful silence barricading his ears. He had long since accepted the fact that he'd gone mad, and he was okay with it. What does it matter, if this little insanity made him happy for a few minutes and did no harm to anyone? But he'd been like this for too long. Suddenly, these brief moments were not enough. There was nothing left for him in this world anymore, and he was pretty sure that he'd only been nothing but a burden to the people around him—always worried about him, always checking up on him and making sure to avoid certain topics so as not to put him off.

Then there were people like Donovan. Anderson. The media. All the people who were stupid enough to believe that Richard Brook was real and that Sherlock Holmes was a fake. No. He'd seen personally Sherlock's brilliance and ingenuity. He would never, for a second, doubt the man who changed his life in so many ways and showed him that he was worth more than he first thought.

The sun had already set by the time John walked out of Sherlock's bedroom and went to his own. Calmly, he opened his bedside drawer and took out his gun. It had been a long time since he last had a reason to use it, and he shifted it between his palms so he could gain back the familiarity. He walked back down to the living room, giving it one last sweeping glance before he went out the front door and shut it behind him.

The walk to St. Bart's had been quicker than he thought it would be, and it wasn't long before he found himself at the roof, gazing down at the rushing cars and lights that had begun to litter all around. He imagined how Sherlock must have felt, standing at the same spot almost three years ago and knowing full well what awaited him below. A sort of ethereal peace surged in him, and he allowed himself to smile.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Sherlock said, appearing beside him. John nodded. "This is what I want," he answered.

"I died for you," he said and for a split second, John saw a flicker of real emotion in his eyes, but he knew that was impossible. "I died for you and in the end you'll just kill yourself."

John let out a broken sob. "Well, what am I supposed to do?!" he yelled. "I'm sick of this, sick of always having to pretend, sick—sick of you being gone."

Sherlock sighed, his gaze piercing through him. "John, I know this is a decision for you to make, but I strongly urge you to reconsider."

John let himself get lost in those eyes. He forced himself to conjure up tiny specks of the lights reflected in them, willed himself to see the row of lines on his slightly cracked lips, but no such detail would come. Another sob racked through him and there was an aching throb in his chest that made him clutch his heart. The air felt thin and his breaths were heavy. But the image of Sherlock that he imagined standing right in front of him did not show even a hint of worry on his face.

"You left me," he said, his voice quavering. "You killed yourself and you bloody left me. Why, Sherlock? Where did I go wrong?"

"John…"

"I love you," he whispered. "Please understand that I need to be with you."

Closing his eyes, John reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. He inhaled deeply and flicked off the safety.

"John."

Yes, I'm coming.

Steady hands brought the gun to his temple. He craned his neck up, aiming to see the heavens one last time.

"John!"

He's excited to see me too.

"John, stop this! Whatever you're doing, stop it now!"

He opened his eyes, harshly disoriented by the newfound desperation in the voice calling out to him. A sudden force brought him to the ground and wrenched the gun out of his grasp. With eyes wide, John struggled to get a look at his attacker.

"Mycroft?" He glared at the man towering over him, John's gun in his hand. He scrambled into a sitting position.

"What on earth was that, John? Do you really believe that he wanted this for you?" In his rage, throbbing veins appeared on Mycroft's forehead as he talked.

John remained silent, deliberately trying to avoid his gaze. He had been so close to finally reuniting with Sherlock. So close. If only he'd pulled the trigger a few seconds earlier… If only he… He…

"John, you must promise me not to do anything like this again." Mycroft said sternly.

"Tell me one reason why I should."

"This isn't what he would want you to do."

John stood up on his feet and clenched his fists. "Well he's dead now, isn't he?! What does it fucking matter?"

Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if John were a petulant child. "Get a hold of yourself! This is not you, John!"

"He left me here to suffer. The bloody git got away from all of it and he left me."

"John, my brother loved you more than anything in this world and if you think you are honouring his death by defeating its purpose, then you are a stupid, insensitive git."

John, rendered speechless, kept glaring at the man. Air. He needed air. Some time alone. Away from all of this mess.

"Mycroft," he said, his voice full of venom. "Please leave."

Mycroft's hard gaze settled for a while before he let out a sigh of resignation. Tucking John's gun inside his suit jacket, he turned around and walked away. But just before he reached the door, he turned back. "I will be keeping you under maximum surveillance, John. I believe it is… necessary."

John spent a few more hours on that rooftop, revelling in the lights and the noise and the starry night sky. His projected Sherlock did not show up again, thankfully. He really needed to think without any distractions.

He thought about what Mycroft said, but didn't quite believe it. After all, if Sherlock really did love him that much, why kill himself at all? Why couldn't he have come to John and ask for help? Why couldn't he have just told him?

John dug the heels of his palms into his eyes and let out an agitated scream. He failed to save his best friend's life, and these were the repercussions of his actions. Painful as they may be, he had no choice but to face them with dignity.

He decided not to try to kill himself again, at least not for a few months, after which Mycroft will have tired of keeping tabs on him. Maybe then he could finally be with Sherlock—his partner, best friend, and love of his life, just as it should be.

That was why, two weeks later, when John was drinking tea and watching crappy television drama and he heard three knocks on the door and opened it to see none other than Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh, standing before him, his jaw dropped and he promptly shut the door in his face.

-O-

Three months, one week, two days after. One human head and three mutilated fingers chilled in the fridge. The smorgasbord of chemistry equipment littered on the dining table. Violin: tuned, polished, and inviting. The skull still a looming presence on the mantelpiece, watching over the Baker Street boys with its hollow gaze. John made a quick note to check it for one of Mycroft's hidden cameras.

John wished that he had been a bit more articulate in his reaction to Sherlock's return. Ideally, he would have punched the man in the face and yelled that he never wanted to see him again. There were still days when he would mull over his previous actions and replay the scene in his mind, wondering what would have happened if he reacted in this way instead of that.

When Sherlock returned, John had hoped that the insanity would stop. He longed for nothing more than to be able to get back to his old life with Sherlock, solving cases, going on dates, and berating his flatmate. But it seemed as if his return had only magnified the oddities John had developed during his period of loss. He still had nightmares on a regular basis, the sight of his friend's bloody corpse still fresh in his mind and was a frequent visitor in his sleep. At times he noticed a few items missing from the position he'd left them in, and panic arose in him as he wondered if the flat had been infiltrated while he was gone.

More than anything, John wished that he had something better to say upon Sherlock's return. Hoped that some epiphany occurred to him that made him realise fully the weight of reality. But he was still subdued. Afraid. Get a load of that. Capt. John Watson, ex-army medic, afraid. Because in the two months that Sherlock had been back at 221B, John viewed him as a bubble. One with a glistening form that floated freely amidst beakers and music sheets. One that he feared to touch, as if the merest contact would cause him to disappear, never to be seen again for another three years.

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear." Sherlock's voice bit at him through the atmosphere, broke the silence so sharply that he dropped the pen he'd been holding. "I prefer my ten percent hydrochloric acid solution to be placed by the window. Stop putting it back inside the drawers."

John turned to face him, his expression still of shock. There was Sherlock standing before him in all his glory, staring at him with questioning eyes. No, not questioning. Deducing.

"I—alright. Yeah. Sorry," John stammered. "I keep forgetting. What exactly do you need that for again?"

"I am doing an experiment on the effects of temperature variations on the effervescing rates of marble," he said in his signature speech-at-the-speed-of-thought manner. "Apparently, it is still too early for me to work on any cases. I had to do something to keep my mind from rotting away."

John shifted his weight and looked down. "Right. Just make sure not to shoot any walls this time."

Piercing eyes squinted at him. Sherlock looked like he wanted to say something, but he nodded silently and walked out of the room.

John released the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. How long was he going to be this way? He wanted to get over his irrational actions, past the lingering nightmares and the uncomfortable silences that prevented him from going back to his previous easygoing relationship with the consulting detective. He wanted to comfort him after the dreadful case he'd been through. To wrap his arms around his lanky torso and murmur words of assurance into the detective's ears. The sight of him made John's heart clench with pain and drove him mad with desire. Desire to be close. To love and be loved. To connect. But he could not bring himself to even have a proper chat with the man, no matter how strong these urges might be.

Sherlock had mostly been quiet about these matters. Usually, he spent hours on end with his experiments while he waited for Mycroft to tie up the loose ends in clearing his name. He never told John what he did during his time away, John just assumed that he'd been all over the world dismantling Moriarty's web. He'd told John how he managed to fake his death, however, but John did not entirely listen.

The atmosphere inside the flat had gone so awry that Sherlock finally decided to do something about it. That night, when the two were sitting on the sofa, John eating spoonful after spoonful of his potato salad and Sherlock simply playing with his food, the latter finally spoke up. "You never asked me about what I did the past three years."

John hastily gulped down his food before he spoke up. "Err, yeah. You were taking out Moriarty's group. Saving the world like the hero you are." He rolled his eyes. "I think I got the basics."

"I'm not a hero."

"We are not having this argument again, Sherlock."

"Were you not worried about me?" The dark-haired man inquired. John placed his plate on the table, pondering on how he should respond. "Yes, I was," he answered. "I'm still worried."

"Oh."

John picked up their plates and walked in the direction of the kitchen to place them in the sink. He took a deep breath. Washed his hands. Dried them with a towel. Took his time to go back to the living room, hoping that Sherlock had already left.

Sherlock was standing by the window, staring intently at the lit fireplace. The flames brought a sort of vivid colour to his otherwise alabaster skin. The mop of thick curls stuck out with its tips falling back on the tops of his eyebrows. He was wearing his blue robe on top of his pyjamas, his hands shoved deep inside the pockets. When John entered the room, he appeared to be so taken in by the flickering flames that John wondered whether he'd noticed him come in at all.

"Why are you so quiet?" Sherlock asked, still not meeting his gaze. John didn't know how to answer, only stepped closer to the taller man until they were only a few feet apart.

"Talk," he said again. "Be mad at me. Yell profanities at me. Tell me how much you hate me. Please. I want to hear your voice."

He turned around, looked at John, an ineffable intensity in his grey pools. In them, John saw the universe, the stories that Sherlock wanted to convey. And that was when John realised, he hadn't been the only one who felt lonely the past three years. Sherlock had gone through many horrors and barely escaped with his life. He needed someone to listen, and John selfishly chose to amplify his own issues instead.

But he felt betrayed. He spent his happiest years with Sherlock, only to be left behind to go on more crazy adventures without him. He spent years thinking that he had been inferior to the mad genius, that he was never really needed by the man and yet he trailed after him like a lost puppy. This was the final proof that Sherlock had no use for him after all, and it made his insides clench in pain.

"Alright." John cleared his throat. "Did Mycroft know?"

"Yes. I contacted him shortly after I jumped. He's been a big help in concealing my identity."

"What, and I wasn't?" John's voice cracked. "You couldn't have taken just five minutes to tell me that you were alive?"

"You had to believe I was dead or they'd be after you in seconds. Besides, if I told you, you would have followed me and I cannot allow that."

"Why? Because I'm stupid and ordinary? Because I'll only be a burden to you and slow you down? I always knew you had no need of me. Did you pity me—?"

"Don't be an idiot." Sherlock gripped his shoulders, his face gone distraught. John froze, taken aback by the sudden surge of emotion in the taller man's eyes. The grip on his shoulders tightened almost painfully. "I realise that what I did caused you immense pain, but it kept you alive and for that, I have no regrets upon my actions."

"Sherlock, if you've seen me in the last three years, you would have hardly call me 'alive'."

"But I did see you."

"What?"

Sherlock looked hesitant, but he proceeded. "I—When you were talking to my tombstone in the cemetery, all those years ago… I was there."

"You were there?! Why didn't you show yourself—"

"John, listen! I was risking both our lives by being there but I had to do it. I had to see you."

John relaxed for momentarily. "Alright. Continue."

"You said I was the most human human being you've ever met. The last time you saw me, you called me a machine. What is it really, John? Why can't I figure you out?" Sherlock looked at him inquisitively, eyes squinting. It was the look he had on whenever he's trying to solve a challenging puzzle. John thought about what was happening, and his heart made a particular leap.

He was the puzzle.

Sherlock can't figure him out.

Sherlock laid prying eyes on him, trying to deduce the answers out of him, but to no avail.

And John liked it.

"You're human." John finally said. "The most brilliant human I've ever known." Sherlock's grip on his shoulders relaxed before letting go completely. John gave him a reassuring smile.

After his exhausting display of emotion, Sherlock went back to his usual stoic expression and blank eyes. "You're still quiet."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been observing you, since I got back. Whenever you look at me, you have this distinct look in your eyes. Something… It looks like fear." He steepled his hands under his chin, tapping the pads of his fingers rhythmically. "But what could you possibly be afraid—oh."

"Sherlock…"

"Me." Sherlock dropped his hands to his sides and leaned in. "You're afraid of me."

John willed himself not to be abashed at having been so transparent. He stood up straight and lifted his chin in the air. "What made you think that?"

"Touch me." Sherlock said, ignoring the question.

"I—what?"

"I said: Touch. Me." Sherlock stepped inside his personal space, gaze locked on him.

The fire in his eyes was back, and John felt he had no choice but to follow. His hands worked at their own accord, pressing palms flat on Sherlock's chest. He felt his beating heart beneath his fingertips, imagined the mass of tissue pulsing, pumping life into his veins and John went silent with awe.

"Can you feel that, John?" said Sherlock, breaking the silence. "I'm alive. I'm real. You don't have to hold yourself back."

John wanted to cry. All those years of dreaming up Sherlock's form, only to be disappointed when it didn't meet with his standards. The pain at having lost someone so dear to him. The relief that said person was standing in front of him right now, alive and well. It was all too much for him to bear.

His hands slid up Sherlock's chest, to his shoulders, up to the protruding bones of his pale neck. He brought his hands to the nape of his neck, fingers entangling with the tiny curls that rested there. Unable to get enough, he pushed Sherlock towards him, pressing their foreheads together. Breaths mingled. Eyes closed.

"You're alive," John repeated softly, as if it were a mantra. "You're alive. Thank god, you're alive."

"You gave me a reason to keep living."

"Were you scared?" He asked. John felt Sherlock nodding against him. "Thank you."

He released his grip on Sherlock and stepped back, immediately missing the heat emanating from the taller man. Exhausted, he told him that it was about time he went to sleep. He bade him goodnight and left the room.

That night, John went to sleep with a smile on his face, only to be tormented by the sight of Sherlock's lifeless form in his dreams moments later.

-O-

John woke with a start, drenched in sweat and the sheets tangled in his legs. His chest heaved with each breath he took and his palms dug in his eyelids in an attempt to forget the images of Sherlock jumping from the roof. Sherlock landing on the pavement. Sherlock covered in blood. John being powerless to save him. He struggled to stop his mind from racing. They came in all at once, pounding at his head until he clutched his hair and tugged. Please, make it stop. Sherlock is alive. This isn't real.

A part of him still insisted that his heartfelt conversation with Sherlock had all been a distant dream. That he was still dead. That John was still alone. His heart raced and his breathing came out in short gasps. Sherlock is alive. Sherlock is alive. He kept repeating to himself, but it did little to the sequence of images assaulting his brain.

It was 1:04 in the morning. John got up hastily and walked downstairs to the living room, his mind still reeling. The sound of a violin made him pause in his tracks and sigh in relief. He's there. He's right there. Everything's fine. I'm not crazy.

The violin stopped. Sherlock turned to face John, his lanky profile unmistakable even in the poorly lit room. John wanted to run over to him, hold him and never let go. Instead, he cleared his throat and stood up straight. "I couldn't sleep."

"You were having nightmares."

"Sherlock, I have a favour to ask you." John said softly, willing himself to say the rest of his speech. "It might seem weird, and you're welcome to say no—"

"What is it?"

"CanIsleepinyourroomtonight?" John shut his eyes through his garbled speech.

"John, what?"

"Can I sleep in your room tonight?" John repeated, slower this time. "I mean, when—when you were… gone, whenever I had trouble sleeping, I'd always sleep in your room. Your—your scent…" John cringed at how creepy he sounded. "It—it helps me. Somehow. I don't know. This is really weird, forget I even asked." He prepared himself for Sherlock's rejection. Surely this was an act that went beyond the parameters of normal friendship.

"Okay."

"What?"

"You know I loathe repeating myself."

"Oh." He cleared his throat again. "Alright. Uh—thanks."

Sherlock turned his back to John and played the violin once more.

He stepped inside of Sherlock's room, noting immediately how much it had changed since its owner returned. It was messier, though the layer of dust that once settled upon every item in the room had vanished. Case files were scattered left and right and different notes in Sherlock's elegant script littered the desk in the corner of the room. Most important to John, though, was the scent. The scent that had always comforted him to sleep during the loneliest of nights. The scent that had begun to fade away the last time John entered the room, but had come back full force when his flatmate came back from the dead. It was the distinct scent of Sherlock that he always felt like drowning himself in. He walked over to the bed and crept under the covers, sighing.

Despite the fact that he had calmed down immensely, his brain still refused to let him sleep. The images had stopped, though, and that was a relief.

He laid down there for what felt like hours (but in reality could only have been a few minutes), staring up at the ceiling and counting his breaths. The seconds ticking from the clock on the wall. He closed his eyes and focused on the sound of his own pulsating heart. Slowly, his muscles relaxed and he felt himself drifting off towards slumber.

He heard the door open and close. Footsteps coming towards him. The dip in the other side of the bed. Someone crawling under the sheets beside him. A voice: "I know you're not asleep, John."

He was foolish to think he could trick the man. John opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, lying flat on his back with his hands resting palms down on his chest. John turned to face him.

"Tell me about what you did." John said. "When you were supposedly dead. What sort of crazy adventures did you get yourself in?"

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "John, I'm not sure if I should—"

"It's alright. I can take it. You're safe now, so it doesn't matter."

But Sherlock did not answer. In fact, neither of them spoke for the next ten minutes. John thought he was never going to reply, until Sherlock suddenly spoke. "Ken Travish."

"What?"

"Ken Travish. That was the name of the first of Moriarty's men I had to hunt down."

And the pair stayed awake for the next few hours, Sherlock going into detail about every single man he went after before fully dismantling Moriarty's web. John listened eagerly, laughing along to some of Sherlock's ridiculous tactics. More than once did he think that Sherlock could not have survived and John would have spent the rest of his life thinking that he was dead. He shuddered at the thought. He's alive, you git. How many times does it have to be repeated for you?

In spite of his thoughts, John couldn't resist reaching over to rest his fingertips on Sherlock's neck, where his pulse should be. Sherlock abruptly stopped talking.

"I-I'm sorry. I know you're here, but… I just have to be sure." John let out a shuddering breath and began to retract his hand. Sherlock swiftly grabbed it, holding it back to his chest.

"You can see me. You can touch me. You can converse with me. Is that still inconclusive evidence of my existence?"

He turned on his side. They were facing each other now, joined hands in between their warm bodies. John rejoiced at the sight before him. The vivid colour displayed in each eye. The tiny speck just above his left eyebrow. The lines on his forehead and the dip of a philtrum above his Cupid's bow lips. He could count every single eyelash if he wanted to. John was drawn into the consulting detective, felt himself shift closer until their knees bumped and their noses pressed together.

"No—I… I always see you. Everywhere. And I can converse with you too." John closed his eyes. "Then I realise you're not real, that I'm all alone. That I've gone mad…"

Sherlock looked at him, eyes soft, softer than John had ever seen them.

"So even now that you're right in front of me," he continued. "I'm just waiting for you to leave me again."

Sherlock gripped his hand and guided it to his beating heart. "I'm here. I'm not leaving you. I promise."

John felt his heart clench. A tingling sensation erupted in his stomach. He nodded, bumping their foreheads. He was shaking. "Please. Please don't."

"I won't." Sherlock framed John's trembling face in his hands. "Not after what I just went through. Never again, John Watson."

The older man nodded, entranced by the detective's heated gaze. "Okay," he said to reassure himself. "Okay."

His mind launched into an endless chanting to prevent himself from slipping away. He was on the thin line between reality and hallucinatory, unable to determine for sure which elements belonged to what. But Sherlock had just asked him to believe in him, and he knew he had to ground himself for the sake of the man he would do pretty much anything for. Sherlock is real. He's not leaving me. Sherlock is real…

Sherlock brushed his lips ever so slightly against John's.

He felt fire. Fire inside his body, emanating from the spot that Sherlock's lips had touched. A soft whimper broke out of him. He clutched Sherlock's chest like a lifeline, pulling him impossibly close.

For the first time in three years, John felt secure. There in the darkness of Sherlock's room with only a sliver of moonlight to illuminate their faces. He was warm, but not uncomfortably so. He felt like floating, but at the same time grounded by the long fingers that cradled his hand so gently, as if John's hand was the most precious thing it ever beheld.

"I trust you. With my life." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, his face buried in the dark curls. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist and tangled their legs together under the sheets. John smiled, the scent that he longed for so long now overpowering his senses. He brushed his fingers gently on the mop of hair, following the looping trails of each strand. He felt Sherlock release a comforting sigh as John allowed his eyes to close and finally succumbed to sleep.

There were no bad dreams for either of them that night.

When John woke up, the room suddenly felt a lot colder. Sunlight beamed fully from the windows and made him squint his eyes as he sat up. He looked to his side. He was all alone.

Panic started to creep in. Sherlock was gone. He remembered falling asleep next to him, but now he was gone. That could only mean two things: either he simply hallucinated Sherlock's return once again, or Sherlock really had been there that night, but left in disgust when he realised what had taken place. A cold, dreadful feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He did not know which option he liked better.

Footsteps heavy, he made his way slowly into the living room, unsure of what to expect. Despite himself, a sigh of relief went out of him when he saw Sherlock, clad in a purple button up shirt, performing experiments on the dining table. He was wearing a pair of safety goggles, his right hand holding up a beaker containing a murky solution into the sunlight while his left hand took down notes in his elegant script. He did not look up when John entered the room, merely stopped writing for a split-second before resuming once again.

John's mind was reassured, but the dreadful feeling in his stomach did not leave him. Were they back to this, then? Did last night not mean anything after all? He walked towards the kitchen to start making breakfast. In his mind, John knew that he was being selfish. Sherlock had told him all those years ago that the Work always came first. John witnessed countless of times the lengths he would go through just to receive a somewhat satisfactory result of his deductions. Sherlock was a brilliant powerhouse matrix of analyses, experiments, and data on strings from cause to effect that he exercised with regularity, and John had been foolish to think that one night of petty cuddling would change all that.

He let out a derisive laugh. Who was he to think that he could make such an impact on the great Sherlock Holmes? He was a former army doctor who got shot and invalided out of Afghanistan. His leg acted up in times of distress. He was not a genius like Sherlock. Now, as a doctor of medicine, John reckoned he was a relatively smart man. But to Sherlock, he must seem so small. Ordinary. Easily replaced.

His hands trembled at the thought and the plate he had been holding crashed to the ground. Sherlock, who had left his experiment on the dining table in favour of reading a book on the couch, looked up from his spot in the living room. "Is everything alright in there?"

"I'm fine." John lied through his teeth. Sherlock made a brief humming sound in response and went back to his book.

John ate breakfast alone. A daunting silence settled over the flat while he took bites of his jam and toast and Sherlock sat still on the sofa, too engrossed in his book. When John was done, he cleaned up and sat down next to Sherlock. He glanced at the cover of the book his flatmate had been reading so thoroughly. The Backyard Beekeeper: An Absolute Beginner's Guide to Keeping Bees in Your Yard and Garden.

Sherlock's face was blank, his brows slightly furrowed in concentration. John noticed that his clothes looked much bigger on him and he wanted to punch himself for not realising sooner how much weight Sherlock had lost during his disappearance. The dark circles under his eyes were tremendous, and his whole demeanour had changed since his return. He was no longer the agile, feline-like man that bounced around the flat on several pieces of furniture. Instead, his back was straightened, feet planted firmly on the ground, poised to strike at any given notice. As if he were expecting danger to come at any time and he needed to prepare himself for it, because the slightest deviation from his awareness can and will cost him his life.

Still, there was a distinct serenity to his expression, a sort of calmness that John delighted in looking at. This was the look he had on when he needed to concentrate greatly on something. The focus that entailed the extreme importance of its subject, which was odd considering that he was reading a book about backyard beekeeping and last time he checked, they didn't even have a backyard. John wanted nothing more than to be the subject of that focus, to feel for once the actual degree of his significance to the consulting detective.

The desire to reach out to him was so strong that it formed a dull ache inside his chest. His obsession with the man was getting out of hand. He can feel a monster clawing at his stomach, hungry and satiable only by Sherlock looking at him. Sherlock touching him. Sherlock overpowering his senses until he forgot his own name. He did not know what he was feeling, because it was the first time he ever felt this way about anyone. He daresay he'd fallen in love many times before, but none of them ever filled him with such a desperate need as this.

Sherlock had been holding up his book with one hand, elbow propped on the armrest while his other hand rested on the space between them. John wondered how he would react if he were to suddenly enclose that pale hand in both his own. If he were to tug on it and pull him close. If it would surprise him so much he'd finally drop that god damn book, and crush their lips together to establish the connection he'd been longing for since the day they'd met. Then, and only then, will he feel safe.

He realised that he'd been staring at Sherlock for a few minutes now, the silence in the flat still overwhelming. It was a surprise that the dark-haired man hadn't noticed. Anger filled him once again. Why won't he notice him?

The monster in him growled, and this time he decided to give into it. Quietly, he let his hand rest on top of Sherlock's in between them. It was only a fleeting touch, but it sent sparks up his arm and down his spine. They sat like that, his palm resting on the back of Sherlock's hand. Sherlock did not give even the slightest indication of response, and it infuriated him even further.

The ache in his chest intensified, and it startled him so that he instinctively tucked his thumb under Sherlock's palm and gripped tightly. He closed his eyes, hoped that the aching would go away.

The hand beneath his turned up and slotted their fingers together. A steady pressure enclosed John's hand and a thumb placed featherlight strokes on his knuckles. John looked at the man next to him in surprise. The book had fallen onto Sherlock's lap, and his expression was one that John could only recognise as concern. His face was hard, his eyes boring into John's. Looking deeply into them, John also saw a hint of anger. Sherlock was angry at him, but he had no idea why.

"Sherlock, I—" he said weakly.

"Yes, what is it?" He answered, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"I-I want…" He couldn't bring himself to say the rest of the sentence.

"John. What do you want?" Despite his cold gaze, his thumb still kept the gentle strokes on John's hand. "Tell me."

"I want your focus on me," he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, "Always."

Sherlock drew back his hand and leaned back in his seat. He steepled his hands under his chin, a thoughtful expression on his features. He gave a small smile. Perplexed, John said nothing.

"You still don't get it, do you?" he said, his voice almost menacingly deep. "All those years of living with me and you never knew. You have always been in my thoughts, John—every second of every minute of every day. I've long since given up on trying to dedicate a room to you in my mind palace. Instead, you're everywhere—tacked on the brick walls, scattered all over the floor. I let you permeate my senses because I was powerless to stop it. Decades of conditioning my mind to ease and release data at will did not prepare me for you. Usually it is manageable, but it's becoming quite bothersome as of late." He gave a derisive laugh.

John was sure he'd stopped breathing during Sherlock's speech. He stared at him, mouth slightly agape, still perplexed. He felt himself drift closer to him, their shoulders touching, faces only inches apart. He could see himself reflected in Sherlock's eyes. "What does that mean, exactly?"

There was a flicker of emotion in his face, but it lasted only a split second before he got back to his cold demeanour. "Mycroft told me you tried to kill yourself."

Oh.

So that's why he was mad.

"That was a long time ago," he answered with as much strength as he could muster.

"That doesn't change anything."

"I was alone and desperate. And I'm not anymore."

"How can you be so sure?"

John shot him a pleading look. He needed Sherlock to understand that now that he was back, John didn't need to put himself in harm's way just to get a fleeting look at Sherlock's face anymore. He needed Sherlock to understand that he saved him, begged him to see it his way because he was afraid that Sherlock would leave him again for good.

John wanted to tell him so many things, but the best he could come up with was "You're back now. I left my insanity behind."

Sherlock grabbed his wrist harshly and held it against the back of the sofa. John's breath caught in his throat. His face had leaned closer, his expression livid. "I could have lost you. If Mycroft hadn't come on time to stop you. I would have come home to an empty flat. All of it would have been for nothing." His voice cracked in the last word, and John felt his heart break a little. Sherlock's grip on his wrist did not loosen, and he felt his fingers go cold and numb.

"You are not to do that again." Sherlock continued. "What you did was stupid and dangerous and I can't believe you were daft enough to even consider it!" His other hand went up to grip John's shoulder, his fingers digging into the soft material of John's shirt. He saw so much pain and anger in Sherlock's eyes. John wanted to cower away in fear, but he stood his ground.

"Wait—don't I get a say in this?" said John, an edge of anger in his voice. "I watched you die, Sherlock. You forced me to look at you, and I didn't think you would do it, but you did. You jumped. Do you have any idea how it feels to mull over the suicide of the most brilliant man you've ever known, thinking that it was your fault?" The grip on his shoulder and wrist loosened. Realisation dawned on Sherlock's features. "I blamed myself, Sherlock. I spent years thinking where I went wrong, and was I not good enough of a friend for you that you had to go and kill yourself." John inhaled deeply, his voice dropped low. "So don't you dare lecture me about this! You have no right."

John was prepared to say more, but just when he was catching his breath, Sherlock grabbed his face and crushed his mouth to John's. John inhaled sharply, his eyes springing open. Sherlock's lips moved against him desperately, coaxing his lips open and shoving his tongue in John's mouth. He did not know how to react. He willed time to slow down, to let him gather his thoughts for a bit. He placed a hand on Sherlock's cheek while the other rested on his collarbone as he responded to the kiss. He licked his way into Sherlock's mouth, gliding effortlessly over the row of perfectly aligned teeth before brushing with his tongue. Sherlock moaned, the sound reverberating into the column of John's throat. It drove him insane.

Grabbing the taller man's shirt collar, John leaned in and straddled his hips. The book on bees fell to the floor with a satisfying thud. John smiled victoriously against his lips, sliding his hands to the back of Sherlock's head and tugging on the soft curls. Sherlock had one hand on his waist and the other on his neck, his thumb stroking at the erogenous zones of his ear. John closed his eyes, basking in the feeling of Sherlock's full attention on him. It filled him with an almost euphoric sense of fulfilment that he had never felt before. Finally, he was able to feel him. To be assured that he was not, in fact, crazy. Sherlock moved to place featherlight kisses on his neck. John lifted his chin, exposing more of his skin for Sherlock to explore.

John ground down on his thighs, snapping their hips together. A loud moan was elicited from the consulting detective's lips. He thrust his back up to John with more accuracy, and this time they both moaned from the burst of pleasure at the contact. John's heart was pounding inside his chest, his breathing came out in short gasps. Sherlock's hands settled on his hips, fingers splayed over the backs of his thighs in a way that seemed to John so dirty. They kept thrusting, establishing a rhythm. Open mouths reconnected. Sparks of pleasure shot up John's spine as he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt.

John wanted to cry. He had been so alone. He was close to ending his own life. So close to having missed this opportunity to be with Sherlock. But he was here, sprawled on top of him, ravishing him. Rolling his hips against him with fervour. Grinding down his arse on the bulge forming in Sherlock's trousers. John moaned deeply, his head falling back at the sensations coursing through him. He leaned in, his hands sliding down Sherlock's bare torso. He kissed him slowly, encasing Sherlock's lower lip with both of his. "Sherlock, thank you." He found himself saying in between breathless gasps of pleasure. "I owe you so much."

John clutched Sherlock's hair and pressed him close in an almost suffocating hug. Sherlock's hands slid up his arse and dug into his back. He leaned back up to recapture John's mouth in his. The kiss was gentle and deep, taking its time to explore, yet contained all the emotions the two could not convey in words. The longing. The years of separation. The desire. A whimper went out of Sherlock's throat as he drew back and stared longingly into John's eyes. "Marry me."

John froze, feeling the words cut into his skin. It wasn't even a question, but more of a demand. A warm feeling grew inside of him as he brushed some curls away from Sherlock's forehead, looking fondly at him through half-hooded eyes. Sherlock's expression was so raw that it made his head spin. He found himself nodding eagerly, placing a chaste kiss on his swollen lips.

And that was when he realised that perhaps he hadn't left his insanity behind after all. Because a marriage with Sherlock meant more heads in the fridge. It meant more bullet holes in the walls and quite possibly some company to that skull on the mantelpiece. It meant more dangerous nights of chasing criminals down the streets of London. More experiments gone awry that would force him to leave the flat for days. It meant more fighting and yelling over the most mundane things. It meant more times where Sherlock would be quiet for days, littered by sporadic outbursts in between and John would have to deal with it all.

But a marriage with Sherlock also meant more adventurous chills and thrills. It meant no more lonely nights of crying himself to sleep. It meant he'd have someone to care for, to make sure he slept and ate with regularity. It meant that they would never have to spend another day apart. He could breathe. He could live peacefully. He could be the happiest man alive with no repercussions at all.

So what if he kept his little insanity, if it made him happy and did no harm to anyone? John was content. He was floating. And he was a fool if he said he wanted this little insanity to end.


End file.
